


Rendezvous

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Series: Cross My Heart [24]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, This isn't really happy or sad?, and vague, this is pretty short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Unbetaed.





	Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.

They didn't talk when they met - Harry didn't even know his name. He'd never been asked for his own either, so he'd never given it. Their communication was mostly nonverbal, looks and gestures and a strange sort of shared understanding. Not that their desires weren't easy to understand in the first place.  
  
Their meetings weren't regular either. Harry lived there and was known in the bar downstairs, and _he_  was pretty infamous in the underground, made his way as an assassin. It was funny, or not really, that Harry could even stand to touch him where a few years back he'd have been outraged. He'd been naive then, willing to not only see the best in people but to divide them up into good and evil, black and white. But the real world wasn't split into innocents and Death Eaters, and Harry wasn't exactly free of all sin either.  
  
And he was so, so attractive, and dangerous, and every time Harry was with him he felt a little more alive, a little less jaded. They didn't love each other - he didn't even know if they were capable of it - but they had the sort of companionship that came with empathy, and a whole lot of lust they weren't afraid to act on. At first they met downstairs in the bar. It was a relatively new establishment, but already had a less that savoury reputation. Gang members and criminals came regularly for meetings, and anyone looking for important people in the underworld came here to find them. It was neutral ground, and it was owned by Harry. Their dance started out slow, heavy glances and teasing touches across slivers of bare skin, warm hands on hips and lips on his nape, before they found themselves ending up in bed every time their eyes made contact.  
  
And now this, where Harry could come into his flat and find him waiting in the dark, where he could be grabbed from behind and feel - for just a second - like he could be snapped like a twig in this strong arms, in those  broad hands, and feel adrenaline course through his veins before his mind caught up. And then there would be lips at his nape, teeth on his skin leaving marks for days, and this wasn't love. It really wasn't. Instead, it was a sort of dependence that he suffered only because this man was available.  
  
If he disappeared, Harry would still survive.  
  
But this, touching strength so compact and contained, and realise by he could so easily be a victim of it was exhilarating, and being spread open and taken as if he was a doll was nothing short of intoxicating. He loved it, spent his days thinking about it and anticipating when he'd see the man next, when he'd be able to touch him and kiss him again. It wasn't love, Harry thought, but that was conceivably only because Harry didn't think he was _capable_  of love anymore.  
  
This was, perhaps, the closest he was able to get to it.  
  
The last time he saw him was no different to usual. He arrived to his rooms upstairs late at night - or maybe that was early in the morning. He'd not even managed to light any candles before strong arms were wrapping around his waist and turning him to face a tall shadowed figure. He'd smiled and kissed him without a word, and woken up the next morning alone.  
  
And then he'd never seen him again.  
  
He learned, much later, that the man had met his match and lost his life on a job. He didn't ask for details, but once he was in the privacy of his own home he allowed himself a brief moment to mourn him. The man had by no means been innocent - most likely, his would-be victims were rebels. Harry was, after all, fully aware of the world he lived in, and the cruelty of the Fire Nation that made a habit of employing the hitman. But he didn't think on that, instead remembering all the times they'd looked into each other's eyes across the room and seen desire and maybe - just maybe - affection. He remembered it, and mourned the loss before locking those memories away.  
  
Life went on.


End file.
